M&MRC Cruce Story #11: Nothing’s going to stop us now

It’s quite a feeling running from one country to the other. In the middle of nowhere. With some weird energy that, after being so tired just hours previously, you have no idea where it comes from.

The sun was shining and Maria and I were on a roll. We were passing familiar flags and faces and there was definitely a lot more banter going on between everyone. The end was near and people could feel it in their hearts, in their minds, in their legs. The route had been cut by a few kilometres after the previous day’s never-ending 41km which had turned out to be a teeny tiny lie. 41 kilometres? joked those with GPS, powered by their superior knowledge. I heard someone say they had clocked over 46km. Whatever. It was far.

So here we were with our bodies being strangely satisfied by our running. We took a turn and ran over a bridge into a national park with some twisting paths through the forest. We waved at those lazing on the shore fishing, drinking mate, sunbathing. The sun beat down on us and through the trees the lake shimmered. We knew that when our path came to that body of water we were nearly home and dry.

It was interesting on the way to see a tactic that quite a lot of the mixed teams employed that day. Imagine: man in front with all the weight on his back and holding a pole behind him which, at the end of it, was the woman basically being pulled along to keep pace. You got the sense that not all the couples were doing it for pace and timing. Some people seriously needed to be pulled to the end.

I remember that as the path worked its way down towards the water and the small cabins dotted on the lake Maria and I were talking all the time. I remember some chat about a film, but can’t for the life of me remember any details because the overriding memory is one of joy and adrenalin. We hit the flats and started going for it, bouncing along the grass and the stones on the shore. The lake curved round to a point where it almost enclosed, but there was a short waterway which we would have to cross in canoe or boat.

We strode out, passing more familiar teams, feeling a surge of power and pride.

“You there?” “I’m here.” We bounded towards the line.

The finishing line for the timer chip wasn’t the true, glorious end. It clocked us in, and we jumped over it together. Home. People seemed a bit bewildered. What? Is that it? Have I done it? You have. Smile.

We then had to queue on that windy shore to get over to the other side of the lake and make our last steps to the finish. Unfortunately, the race organisers stopped the use of the canoes as it was really windy and they were inflatable. If we’d had to row, we would probably have ended up back in San Martín. So, we jumped into other boats and skimmed across the water to the woods on the other side.

And then it was time. Hearts were pounding. We had ignored all the negative talk we’d heard in the boat queue and were ready for our grand finale. M&MRC was coming home. We got our flags out, put our fleeces away and put our packs back on. There was a big, inflatable finish line to cross with cameras and claps and we were ready for it. I briefly though back to the first finish line on Day 1 and how it had taken forever. But now our legs needed no persuading.

We dipped through the trees and came to a clearing, where someone pointed us to the left and then we saw it. The field opened out and our triumph was metres away. We opened out our flags and took each other’s hands. Smiles spread on our faces and as the crowd saw us coming so the cheering and clapping started.

We will never forget those last 100 metres. It’s hard to forget the thousands before that; but the culmination of such physical and mental effort, the end of such an incredible experience and the success of our adventure were all written in the grins of our faces as we crossed the line. In the euphoria there were huge hugs, photos with the official photographers, photos with friends who had seen us cross, another interview with ESPN. There was the handing in of the timer chip, the receiving of our medals. There was meat and chorizo, there was sun and sitting on the grass. There was cheering and clapping for those that followed us over the line.

It’s always sad when something amazing comes to an end. But not when it’s an adventure that ticks all the boxes: friendship, beauty, nature, adversity, triumph. These adventures stay with you a lifetime; in the memories made and the things you learn about yourself and others.

On the way back to San Martín de los Andes all I could think about was the past four days and how they had fired up even more love in me: for this part of the world, for running and adventure and for my friend dozing next to me on the minibus. For there is no one else I could have crossed that finish line with. She is the Maria, the Mondonga, the Mad, the Marvellous of M&MRC. And if there is another finishing line like that one, no doubt she’ll be there again for More.

Words running out of our mouths

Words are important to Maria and I. When we both lived in the same city and ran together each week, we would talk the whole way. Talking, laughing, discussing, telling, complaining, marvelling, joking and questioning meant that we didn’t have to think about the running. That just happened and by the time we’d been round Puerto Madero we had caught up on the office and student gossip, family life, plans and boyfriend endeavours. Which, run done, of course left more talking.

I haven’t run and talked in a while as I now run by myself. Martín doesn’t like to run with me as I “go too fast up the hills” (remember, these are no longer hills in a post-Cruce world). So that’s why being with Maria again for our Andes 3-day running/hiking challenge was fabulous: I had a partner in crime that talked!

Now, I’m not going to bore you with the intimate details of our never-ending conversations. That would be honestly foolish. No, what I am going to do here is celebrate the funny and the ridiculous of what came out of our and others’ mouths during Cruce de los Andes.

When all is said and done, the sublime and the preposterous stand out. And, as words, here they are.

“I was going to say… this must be the Columbia store.” Laura using all her observational powers walking round San Martín de los Andes.

“What do they do about people who want to go out at night?” Laura.

“Maybe they just don’t promote going out.” Maria, on why we can’t get into our hostel at some unearthly hour of the morning.

“Is 3km per hour even possible?” Laura, before 3km per hour.

“Y EQUIPO 90?” José, always concerned about us girls.

“LLamando equipo 90!” José and Gonzalo, calling across the very narrow space to our tent at night.

“DURISIMO!” Everyone, revealing how bloody hard Day 1 was.

“That’s when I’ll put on deodorant.” Maria, Night 1 planning her armpit stops.

“OTRA subida?” Everyone, wondering when the climbs would stop.

“Is this where we get choripan?” Maria. Obviously.

“Is this still lunch?” Laura to a kitchen helper on Day 1, 6.38pm.

“I mean, SERIOUSLY?” Laura and Maria every time they talked about Reyes and Ortega (the winners).

“Oh look, there’s your mate.” Laura to Maria every time we saw an American.

“I suck at math.” Maria, not being able to count how far we still had to go.

“Tienen GPS?” Various women who were always wearing pink and confusing us. And no, we didn’t have GPS.

“This is BRILLIANT!” Laura, reminding everyone they had chosen this and to enjoy it.

“You had me fooled for a while, at least 30 seconds. I’m the Argentine-American.” The mostly American Argentine-American. Maria clocked him a mile off with this thumbs-up photo poses.

“Como están las piernas?” Everyone, all of the time, concerned about the legs of others.

“Let me talk to your boss.” Man at the lake to the boy with a walkie-talkie who was telling us the race had been abandoned.

“When we get back we’re going to go to the tent. You’re going to go to your side, I’m going to go to my side and we’re going to have a long, hard word with ourselves.” Laura, Day 2 still on the downhill; still over 2 hours from home; still unaware there would be no tent that night.

“The tissues are migrating.” Maria, with tissue issues.

M&MRC Cruce Story #9: Kitchen shelter for exhausted runners

The feeling of crossing that finish line, after 10 hours on the move, wet and aching, tired but oh-so-happy, was unbelievable. We had done it. In those final metres we were laughing; we had no idea why or at what. We were talking some kind of crazy language only we understood. The photographer was slightly bewildered and afraid of our euphoria. We were destroyed.

I would like to say we walked, but we stumbled off the beach in jubilation. The lake behind us was still bathed in the last rays of the day; the sky was pearl blue and the moon sat squarely above the mountains, gleaming brighter with each passing minute.

The campsite was in a large field right next to the beach. Rows and rows of bright blue bugs greeted us again. Home sweet home.

Maria walked towards the first pile of backpacks she saw. “There’s ours.”

No there’s not. They were for the workers. We wandered further into the mayhem. Well, mayhem in slow motion. People were hobbling, dragging their packs, sitting on the grass wrapped in warm clothes and survival blankets looking, above anything else, totally worn out. We picked up a chorizo and bread on the way to find our bags.

They hadn’t arrived. The large boat that had transported us to the first camp two days before had broken down, and instead there was a tiny boat being used to transport everything down the lake. As that morning we had had to put our packs in piles according to the previous day’s times our bags were not a priority. And, true, we had arrived six hours after the leaders of the pack. But still. We were wet. We were dog-tired. We were hungry. Dry clothes, warm clothes, cutlery and plates, torches and sleeping bags: all these were in our backpacks.

We decided to sit by the fire and get warm. Ah, what pleasure it was to take off those wet trainers and socks and toast our toes by the crackling flames of the fire. Darkness had descended and we sat boggled-eyed staring at the fire’s glow. Maria went for another chorizo.

Then we heard it. Your bags will be arriving between 12 and 1am. We looked at each other. It was nearing 10pm. The temperature had dropped. We now understood why people had run in that sweltering heat with fleeces strapped to their packs. We also knew that information was a lie. 1am meant 3am. We had lived in Argentina long enough. We understood that.

Two shadows cast over us. “Chicas! Equipo 90!” It was José and Gonzalo, our neighbours and saviours of Equipo 86. It had been a tough day for them too, but they had arrived in plenty of sun and sat on the beach with mate awaiting our triumphant arrival. The wonder of crossing the line, however, had now passed. We sat and considered what to do for the night.

Equipo 86 came into their own, lending us dry socks, plates and cutlery, handing us fleeces and jackets. They kept our places by the fire as we went to fill our bowls with pasta. With each forkful the need to lay horizontal and be warm intensified. More news came over the loud-speaker.

Some people were being offered a trip to San Martín de los Andes for the night in a hostel. A warm shower and bed seemed like an amazing option. But we had driven that road two days ago. It was a long trip. By the time we got there and found a bed for the night, we’d have to come back for the start of the third leg. And what about our passports? They were in our backpacks. Would we be let out? Would we be let back in? We knew we had to make some kind of decision soon.

Then José told us about a cabaña that had been mentioned earlier (way before we crossed the line). He went to investigate as we shoved spaghetti into our mouths. A dry and warm bed, here in this tiny village? Too good to be true, surely. Why wasn’t everyone there?

He came back. We were going to the cabaña, regardless if we were on any list or not. Equipo 86 thought they knew where it was. It wasn’t as if you could get lost in the village: one way was forest and the Argentine border; the other the lake with a tiny boat working its way back and forth all night. Anything resembling a cabaña was in total darkness. There was only one light on in the village and we headed to that door.

The heat that hit us from inside was wonderful. Smells of coffee and bread greeted us. It was a tiny kitchen, which we learnt made the bread rolls for the village. All the lady could offer us was a couple of inflatable mattresses and some blankets. Would that be all right? Sounded like heaven to us.

José and Gonzalo left us to it, as the lady’s sons brought mattresses out and laid them on the floor in front of the mud oven. We kept looking at each other, shaking our heads in disbelief. We were inside; dry and warm, with snug clothes, a better bed than we would have had in our tent and a working toilet. This was 5-star luxury.

I laid down as Maria helped a woman find her contact lens. Another couple had arrived and found the kitchen shelter for exhausted runners. We were happy to share. Even in extreme tiredness, relief buzzed around the room. I tried to move my legs. They were stuck, already sleeping.

The stars out of the window next to us pulled us towards sleep as well, and we were rocked by the lady’s kindness, the smell of baking and warmth of that oven all night long.

M&MRC Cruce Story #7: The Long and Winding Road

It shouldn’t have been a surprise. We had been warned. Day two is harder than day one. We woke up the next morning, the rain had gone. So had my thighs.

In the queue for the toilet, everyone was stretching out their quads this time. Some people came out of the portaloo looking as if they really still needed to go for a number two quite badly. The volcano had shot a lot of muscles. But today, there was further to go. We had come here for this: challenge, mystery… seeing how much we could take.

So, our training hadn’t been in the mountains. That didn’t matter now, the super steep was over. All we had to do was keep moving. After packing up our backpacks and dumping them on the beach, we set off on the same walk through the woods to the starting point over the bridge. We would follow a brief section through the forest as per yesterday and then veer off through the green mountains bordering the lake we had boated up two days before. Our second camp was on the southern shore of the lake in the tiny village near the Argentine border. Just a short diversion of 40km to get there.

The sun shone down on us again, breaking in golden strands through the trees. This part was undulating, but we had a pattern of jogging and walking to suit the legs. The worst bit for the thighs was the downhills.

“Eee, ow, ooh, ahh, heee, uhh, ouch!” were the acoustics to the downhill steps. We happily ran the flats. “It’s actually easier to run once you get into a rhythm,” Maria said and I agreed.

We left the forest and hit some open countryside. Green mountains encased us as we jogged on dirt tracks through gold and jade fields. Behind us rose the previous day’s challenge, that majestic volcano. With each step it became some far away land we had dreamt of. We passed a llama farm; we stopped at streams to fill up on fresh, cold water. The sun beat harder.

People passed us and we passed others with fleeces tied to their packs. “Why would you run in this weather with a fleece?” I asked. “Completely stupid,” Maria agreed.

After a couple of hours, the track started to point upwards. This was the climb we had had to save ourselves for. We were now back among the trees and couldn’t see anything beyond the next curve. Lining the route were flowers bursting with bright orange and yellow colours. Above us birds sang. They could see our route. We knew nothing of what was ahead.

“Anyone got a GPS?” This was a dangerous question. No one knew at what point it would level and we’d be going down again. At one stream, Maria jumped down to get fresh water and I heard someone clocking 23km. We were around four hours in. Well, it can’t be much further to the top, we thought.

The climb carried on, and we continued pounding up switchback after switchback, hoping to see some peak, some sign of blue bodies disappearing over the horizon. But we could see no horizon. We enjoyed the scenery: the further we climbed, the further we could out from the mountain. The lake, our home, our destination, was behind another belt of emerald mountains. Even when we hit the top, we had to get down through them. Somehow.

There is a feeling you get when you are exhausted and waiting for change. It’s hope. You grasp onto any little sign that the next corner, the next moment will bring some relief. “Where is the peak?” we asked ourselves, time and again.

And then, high up above the trees, now above many birds, our twisting mountain track hugged the peak and opened out. Just a few more dips and rises and we would be there. It was an incredible view. In our tiredness you still had to appreciate it. And as we hit the crest of our long and winding climb, there were those magic digits.

30km. Set into the mountainside written with stones. A wondrous sight. Hope and truth rolled into one. It was downhill from now on, still painful and uncomfortable, but a mere 10km going down after all that? Sounded like heaven. And just 10km before home? Easy peasy. We’d be on the beach in no time.

Wouldn’t we?  

Going the distance

I did something rather cheeky this weekend. I signed my mum up for an event. This was our conversation:

“Hi Mum. Hahahahahaha.”

“What have you done?”

“Hahahaha. I’ve signed us up for something.”

“Oh no. What? I’m not climbing a volcano. What have you done?”

“It’s a Race for Life 5k for Cancer Research.”

Silence.

“What do you think?”

“Well, um, right.”

“It’s only 5k.”

“You’re right. This is good. I can do this. You don’t have to run the whole thing, do you?”

“No. But we can run a bit.”

“Hmm, yeah ok. Powerwalk and run. I can do that.”

“That’s the spirit. Good-Oh. It’ll be fun.”

“Oh dear…”

So Wo (my mum) and I are going to do one of the Race for Life events in Cambridge on July 1st. This is a yearly event with lots of 5 and 10ks all over the country. It’s a women only event and very pink. I did a couple of their 10ks before leaving for South America. It’s really good fun; a whole host of women with stories and inspiration just looking to get to the finish line with a smile on their face.

I chose Cambridge as it’s between where my parents live in Norfolk and us in London. And we can celebrate by punting along the River Cam. And it means Wo can take advantage of training now the days are longer and warmer. It’s also something we can do together as part of Wedding Bootcamp – getting married at the end of the year will get the mother-of-the-bride into a pair of trainers.

So, as I was running around the squirrel woods yesterday I got to thinking about my summer running. Do I keep building up distance again? Or should I work on speed for a while? Or do a bit of both?

It is quite funny to think that my next ‘race’ is a 5k with my mother after the hours spent training and doing Cruce. Maybe I need something else in between to keep me going the distance.

But then, and I’ve written this here before, does it matter how far you go? Or just that you go? My mum is going a distance for a great cause. As a running buddy she’ll be very different from Maria, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be there every step of that way.

And however far it is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We are raising money for Cancer Research UK.

Please visit out donation page here: http://www.raceforlifesponsorme.org/lauraandwo

M&MRC Cruce Story #5: Where is the finish?!

There’s total glee in your mind and body once you start going downhill after a long climb. It infects your humour, your comments, your vision, your pace. Knowing you’ve done the ‘hard bit’, you become confident, fast and jolly.

Leaving the snow behind was a little sad: neither of us had ever had a running/trekking experience quite like it. And once we had got a rhythm going with our ‘trainer skiing’, it had been great. But now we were back to steep and narrow rocky paths with intercepting streams gushing between the rocks. Still, our trainers were already wet, so getting in there to fill up our water bottles with some fresh stuff wasn’t exactly a chore. The sun was still blaring and now we had the volcanoes Lanin and Villarrica in front of us, glaring majestically.

After some pretty steep downhill sections, we hit the tree line again. The paths widened into what must be river beds in spring and ski runs in winter. In full-on summer, they were simply wide, stony roads for us to run. The pleasure was immense. We were passing people. We were moving fast and with every curve the forest got thicker and we got lower and lower.

I lost my flag. In a toilet stop in some prickly trees, I lost my flag. I didn’t realise until another runner asked where I was from, which meant there was no flag flying behind me to tell her. One of those spiny branches had nabbed it. A British flag with my name on it will lie stuck in those trees on that volcano for a while to come. That’s an OK feeling.

More downhills followed and we ran a lot. We started to recognise parts of the path we knew we would rejoin at some point to get back across the bridge. How many hours had that been ago?

“We’ve been going 8 hours,” Maria shouted. We must be there soon.

“Do you recognise this?” we asked each other, running through trees laying across the forest floor which had been cut through so 1,500 runners could pass. We didn’t. Turns out we had volcano amnesia.

“We’re here! Here’s the bridge!” We ground to a halt. Where was the timer chip? Where was the woman on a stool? A little confused, we thought maybe we were too late. But, surely they would have a proper finishing line?

We meandered across the bridge, wanting to dive straight in to the river’s beautiful green waters below. Turning the corner, we strode up the hill we had shuffled down earlier that day, excited and nervous. Then we saw a hand in the air, it was linked to a body. One more kilometre to go! Keep going, this way!

Onwards we ran, taking a fresh route back through the forest, which we also knew took us away from the camp. What were they doing? More tortuous turns? Ahead of us we saw an arch; another lady was standing under it, directing us to the right. Just 500m to go. We turned right and saw a hill. Our legs were jelly like from all the downhills. Come on then, quick march. At the top there was another turn to the left and straight ahead stood a policeman in the middle of the road, stopping the few cars there were to let us pass.

We were back on the flat and started running again. Across the road, those magic words: 100 metres to go! We went as directed. Where? Where was the finish line? Now go through the car park and turn right. We kept going. This was a cruel trick. A little girl stood at the next corner, with her arm out, guiding us right again. Where was it, though? Nearly there, we were told. Where? Where is nearly there?

A couple more twists and turns through the trees and we finally saw it. Holding hands we burst past a couple we had met on the boat and pipped them to the post. It felt incredible. Day one was over. How it had even started we couldn’t remember. Volcano amnesia lets you forget the pain and just remember the joy. And this was pure joy. With drinks in our hands (of the non-alcoholic variety) we chatted with other finishers at the bar: the bar being the patch of grass in the middle of this Chilean forest which was our finish line.

It had taken us 8 hours and 20 minutes to get there. We couldn’t imagine getting to the next bar would take that long.

Could it?

 

M&MRC Cruce Story #3: Lean on me

Maria and I woke up that next morning to the sounds of people zipping up running leggings, filling running packs with energy gels, brushing their teeth.

“How long do these people need to get ready?” It had sounded as if they had been up for hours.

Equipo 86 laughed at us as we emerged, doe-eyed to the morning. “Bird, there are some people out here with their packs on already,” I said.

Well, that’s just not our style. We pulled on our running gear and set off for breakfast. Breakfast in Argentina consists of little more than a cracker or two and a bucket load of coffee. We went for neither, but had our secret ingredient: peanut butter. A whole jar of the stuff had made it with us, and we devoured tea along with bread and peanut butter. I then sat in the tent and made a huge mess while making peanut butter and lettuce (for the crunch) sandwiches with salad we’d saved from last night’s dinner.

“Do you want slug as well?” I asked Maria, of the companion we had unknowingly had in our salad stash. “Nutritious and delicious!”

After the queue for the toilet and another last-minute toilet stop (birds will be birds), we were off. It was 2km to the starting line. The sun was already shining and there in front of us, as we walked through the village, was the volcano we were heading up. At that moment, we were at about 600m above sea level. We would go to 2200m. How this was going to be possible running, we didn’t know.

It seems others had the same thoughts as some runners dived into the tiny church on their way to the starting line.

The starting line was on the other side of a bridge that the organisers had had to construct for the event. We had to wait a while in order to even get to the bridge and the chip timer at the start, as there was no room for all 1,500 of us to go over at once. There was a nervous energy in the air; calves were bouncing up and down, shoulders were being stretched. We heard the helicopter and immediately all hands went to the sky.

And then we were on the other side. I hadn’t even noticed the chip until Maria shouted at me, “That’s it!” And we were off. There was a sudden jolt in the body and we bounced along through the grassy paths until, after about 50 seconds, Uh, Hill. “What, already?!” we exclaimed. Still, we knew the first half of today was going to be all about going up.

The first couple of hours slowly drove us upwards, through the trees, but with spectacular views as climbed. No one was running the uphills. This was encouraging. We were with normal runners! One lady saw we were hiking without poles. “They really help,” she told us, “you should get some.” Soon, eagle-eyed Maria spotted a good bit of thick bamboo and we snapped it in half. Our walking sticks had been born out of the mountain we climbed.

The further we climbed, the more the volcano revealed itself to us. It was beautiful, majestic and… far away. Still, we kept going. Over our shoulders to our right we could see the volcano Villarrica, and behind us sat the perfectly-coned and snow-capped volcano Lanin. We were in a special place.

We joked with the people they had at turning points. We knew where to turn, it was always up. “Seriously?” we would say to them, astounded the path could be so. And, as if they hadn’t heard the joke a million times already they laughed. “Yeah, sorry about that!”

Above the tree line we could see the path ahead: a track of stones and rocks climbing up and up until there was a line of tiny ants in the white. The snow. We ploughed on. There were photo and Gatorade (Lucozade) stops and we chatted to those we passed and who passed us. Our friends from the previous day asked how we were. There were only three words. This. Is. Brilliant.

Getting to the snow line, people were stopping for lunch, a toilet break and clothing changes. I don’t know how far we had already climbed at that point, but we were going higher still and the wind was going to show its face. Time to put on another top, top up the sun cream and eat a banana. It was also time to sing.

“Lean on me, when you’re not strong, I’ll be your friend, I’ll help you carry on…”

We had our sticks, we had our voices, we had each other.

We hit the snow.